Life has its ups and downs. You can see it on all platforms of existence, from this one you’re reading to the halls of finance and politics everywhere. For the past week these posts have zero readership or likes. What doldrums. I wonder if shadow banning exists on this platform? It looks like it. So why do I bother to cast pearls before swine? No reason really. It just happens by itself. I do me, and nothing happens, so I carry on because everything is already achieved and this is just art for art’s sake.
Stop and smell the sea air (photo my own)
Life does itself, it carries on independently. Some die and some live a little longer until they die and so the cycle rolls on. While we live, we produce by-products, some of which become food for others and some of which continue on themselves or sit there as a life imitating art. That’s all we have really, art and life, and the cross section between the two.
Here in this post you have existentialist art imitating life because this post has no other reason to exist other than existence...or perhaps art. There is no utility value to this post. It conveys no valuable information. It has no real artistic value either. It’s simply a string of random words, somewhat coherent but of no purpose or meaning whatsoever. It is simply a random stream of consciousness based on basic surrounding parameters of a day in the life of the living.
And it generates slightly more than zero, a fraction more than zero feedback or return on investment. It shows that I have more to give than I receive. Which is fine, and a good show of life. Proof of life, like proof of brain, is a wonderful thing, but is has no value, as seen by the results of this post and the several others I posted this week. This leads me to question the very value of art, and the value of life itself. Whether you exist or not has no real value or meaning or importance. Especially if you are alone and no one needs or values you in any way.
You could live merely for living, like an art piece in a museum. If no one sees you or appreciates you then what is your value? There is none. It seems that life only really has value to you alone, as your life. Or to others whom you reach and whose life you improve. So you live to bring value to the other, and because you are stuck here and have this body so you have to live with it.
Plenty of life is meaningless and exists purely because it is a bi-product of other life on autopilot that resulted in you. Its like playing an idle miner game where you earn units that are only really of value if you use them to fuel your search for more units (GolemOverlord game anyone?) It is a self-contained feedback loop that reinforces itself for the sake of staying alive to reinforce itself. You might call it a spectacular waste of time, life and everything. And it probably is just that.
But then life comes with all this free time. So we have to use it somewhere. Even if jut to keep life going so that we can have more free time to keep life going. Mouse on a treadmill, running to keep up with going nowhere. Welcome to my world – and yours and everyone else’s. Have you ever thought about it in this existential manner. Around and around goes the wheel of life, the planet rotating from day to day to day. And here we sit working hard to stay alive. But wait – all this work is not even helping me to stay alive since there is zero, or just a fraction above zero value gained from this work or producing written original content. A beggar in the street offering zero could earn more than this output of random and semi-coherent words.
Yet still I write and create this never-to-be-seen or valued piece of paltry prose, not as a productive piece of poetry but as a purely puerile piece of random bi-product from my fertile and fleeting imagination. Let it simmer in the sauce of time, and we will see where it ends up. Perhaps in the dustbin of history, along with those old classics that are being erased from the libraries and memories of civilization. After all, who needs Chaucer or Shakespeare. No one reads that archaic old English prose or poetry any more. Its not woke enough and has way too much white male privilege about it. Bloody racists. Writing all that racist English creative content in rhyming iambic pentameter or whatever. Who do they think they are. Burn the lot.
Burn my posts too, they are worth more or less as much as any bit of random English nonsense. I write in the style which I call existentialist self-reflective nihilistic anti-art prose. Of the post-post-modernist era. It’s very refreshing since it has no subject, object or focus. It merely exists. Which is a great literary tool to show the modern man’s existentialist angst at the trending zeitgeist of the day as he swims in a pool of tepid mediocrity while seeing his jewels of literary embellishment fall flaccidly to the floor of the deep ocean of mush labelled original creative content on trending issues like the price of cryptocurrency from one day to the next, or the pretty flowers and birds that fly naked through time and space offering their plumes for appraisal despite the lack of value in those plumes to anyone other than the wearer.
Never fear, for I shall pick up that plume and write my Cantebury tales for all the world to see, narrating the journey of one intrepid bard and scribe who stumbled along the path of plenty, without a care in the world, like a holy fool, the idiot savant, the prodigy protege, the hero with a thousand faces. This is my autobiography, after all. And when I’m famous – whether pre or post mortem – my writing will shine like the plume of a peacock, not for the sake of attracting a mate or a coin, but for the world to see that art shines of its own munificence and brilliance, even when no one is looking at it or observing it. Still it shines and it sparkles, like a silver star or a golden apple, glistening on the empty desert sands of time and history, floating on a cluttered blockchain among ten million other random and defunct pieces of poetry an d prose made for no one and signifying nothing.